


Prompt: Carved Mark- Shiro (Voltron)

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Attempted Escape, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood, Failed escape, Gen, Infection, Prompt Fill, Shiro as Champion, Torture, carved mark, druid magic is no substitute for actual medical care, druid magic is not condoned by the American Medical Association, oh where to start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:19:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: for my Bad Things Happen Bingo challengevanquisherofsnails on tumblr asked: “Shiro and "carved mark"?”





	Prompt: Carved Mark- Shiro (Voltron)

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially the fault of Unforth, as it was something she said that sparked the later part of this fic.
> 
> Also, fun fic fact! Shiro’s prisoner number is 117-9875.

God, he’d been so close.

Shiro struggled against the hold the sentries had on him. He’d been Champion for close to a month, now, and even though he’d been pretty sure it would end poorly, there had been a split second of lapse between one cycle of guards and the next for his block in between Arena matches, and he couldn’t  _ not  _ take the chance.

He’d run.

He’d known he was on a ship, a huge ship, bigger than he really had a concept for, mentally, but he’d figured if he could run far enough,  _ fast  _ enough, maybe he could find an escape vehicle, or steal a gun, or  _ something _ .

He’d barely made it down two floors, still no sign of the hangars, or anything else, and he was pretty sure he’d been on a maintenance floor when the guards caught up with him, yelling in a language he was quickly starting to pick up words in.

He knew the words for ‘stop’ and ‘don’t move’; those words had been beaten into him within the first couple of weeks. Still, he’d run, trying to stay free for just a bit longer, even one more hallway. He’d turned a corner and ran straight into the chest of a guard- an actual Galra this time, not a sentry- coming from the opposite direction. The guard was almost a foot and a half taller than him, and Shiro had bounced off the armored chest plate like a ping pong ball and ended up sprawled on the floor, partially stunned. Unyielding metal hands grabbed at him and pulled him painfully to his feet.

“Bring him.”

The guard he’d bounced off of turned and headed back the way he’d come, and the sentries holding him pulled Shiro along after.

He only really started to worry about the consequences of his actions when they reached the prisoner containment area, but instead of being tossed back into his cell, he was dragged along further into a room with a table that had straps on it. He didn’t know what they were going to do, but he  _ really  _ didn’t want to find out. He’d been going along with the sentries for the most part on the way back, but now he started to fight, twisting and dropping his weight down, trying to slide loose, but they tightened their hold, metal grips near unbreakable. He was dragged to the table, and he hadn’t thought he could fight harder, but he guessed enough fear and adrenaline could let a person do a lot of things.

“Grab him! Hold him still!”

The guard was yelling at the sentries, and he knew they were having trouble keeping their hands on him; if he could just get free enough to run again, maybe-

The guard had apparently had enough of Shiro’s rebellious attitude, and stalked over and jabbed him with a crackling control stick. Shiro screamed, doubling over as much as he could, and it was all the sentries needed to get him on the table and start strapping him down.

“No. His right arm out.”

They finished tightening the straps on his legs and left arm, and pulled his right arm out to the side, one of the sentries holding his wrist in a bruising grip when they couldn’t make the straps work in that configuration.

“You think you’re  _ so  _ clever.” The guard’s voice rumbled, dripping with malice. “You might be clever enough for the Arena, but it doesn’t matter how clever you think you are.” The guard jabbed at Shiro’s ribs with the control stick, and all Shiro could do was scream again- he couldn’t move enough to struggle. “You belong to us, and you  _ will  _ learn your place. But don’t worry,” The Galra grinned, mouth full of sharp-looking teeth, and Shiro couldn’t help but shudder. “I’ll help you remember.” The guard reached down and used his claws to shred the right sleeve of Shiro’s prisoner uniform, pulling the tatters away until it was bare and tossing the scraps of fabric to the floor.

“I want to be sure you’ll see this, to help you remember.”

The grip on Shiro’s wrist tightened, grinding the small bones together, and it took a moment for what the guard was going to do to register. The guard put the point of one claw tip against Shiro’s forearm and pressed, until blood began to well up, then dragged his claw slowly down in a line. Shiro clenched his jaw tight, trying to keep any sound from escaping. When he was done, the guard lifted his claw out of the bloody furrow he’d left, and moved slightly to the right, repeating.

Shiro thought he was just going to keep making lines until the third time where it looked different, and then suddenly it clicked. God, the guard was carving his fucking  _ prisoner number _ into his arm. At the nine and eight, Shiro couldn’t keep quiet anymore, and started cursing at the guard in every language he could think of. By the time the guard finished the five at the end, Shiro’s arm was covered in blood; it throbbed, and he swore he could feel each bloody line burning like his arm was on fire.

The guard wiped his hands off on a towel the other sentry had handed him, and smirked down at Shiro.

“Take him back to his cell. I’m finished with him.”

The sentries unstrapped him and then hauled Shiro up off the table. His legs gave out, but they just dragged him between them, not caring if he could walk or not. They got to his cell, and tossed him in, slamming the door on his howl of pain when he hit the floor right-arm first.

The next few days were...rough.

He’d almost bitten through his lip trying to keep quiet while cleaning his arm at the small sink in the corner of his cell. He didn’t have any towels or bandages, and he’d tried to wrap his arm in the purple overshirt of his uniform. That had helped some, but he only had the one shirt, and once it was soaked through with blood, it was hard to clean, and hard to get back off his arm once it had dried. He only had one Arena fight, two days after his escape attempt, and though it was a narrow victory, it was still a victory.

The third day after, he noticed his arm was getting warm around the gouges, and he knew that definitely wasn’t good. He tried cleaning it again, but he could only do so much with just water. 

By the morning of the fourth day he knew he was running a fever, and the edges of the wounds had gone red and hot, spreading outward in streaks, and fuck, if they didn’t do something, he was going to die from blood poisoning, and that would just be stupid. He didn’t want to die of something stupid.

The afternoon meal came and Shiro couldn’t keep it down; had to risk asking for help. When the guards came around to collect the trash, Shiro tried.

“Please...I’m sick, the- the wounds are infected. You have to do something.”

The guard considered him, grunted, then left.

Shiro collapsed back against the wall of his cell, enjoying the feeling of coolness from the metal. He’d tried his best.

He quickly re-evaluated his decision when his cell door opened again a while later, and instead of a doctor, it was the witch- Haggar. He’d heard some other prisoners talk about her, and had seen her once or twice at the Arena. She’d given him the creeps from the stands, up in Zarkon’s box, but that was nothing compared to how she felt up close. Every part of him wanted to crawl as far away from her as he could, as quickly as he could.

“Champion.” She floated across the floor to him, dropping down next to him silently. He could feel himself shaking harder the closer she got, and he knew it wasn’t his fever. He was scared.  _ So  _ scared. Possibly more scared than he’d been since he and the Holts were captured. She just felt  _ wrong _ .

Haggar reached down and grabbed at his wrist, still colored with bruising from being held down after his escape attempt, and twisted his arm over so she could see the damage.

She hummed in thought, moving his arm around, and Shiro was frozen, unable to move. He wished he was brave enough to strike at her, to pull his arm back, but he had a feeling that even if he’d been in full health, he wouldn’t have dared. He was like a rabbit pinned by a wolf; he knew he couldn’t win this fight.

She let go of his wrist and straightened, turning to one of the masked Galra Shiro had heard referred to as druids.

“That will not heal quickly or easily, which is unfortunate. We cannot have the Champion out of commission so long. It does however afford us an opportunity.” She briefly looked down at him with the hint of a smile. “Take him to my lab. We will remove it, and replace it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Want to submit a story prompt, flail at me, ask me a question, or just say hi? Come find me on tumblr at [Analisegrey](http://analisegrey.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
